


Bayside City Story

by kuro49



Category: Pacific Rim (2013)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Noir, Gen, Non-Graphic Violence, POV Alternating, there's a story in here somewhere
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-23
Updated: 2014-01-23
Packaged: 2018-01-09 17:15:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1148697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kuro49/pseuds/kuro49
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are men turning up dead all across town. No one seems responsible until everybody is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bayside City Story

**Author's Note:**

> Originally this was supposed to be part of my [PPDC’verse](http://archiveofourown.org/series/57554) but I couldn’t come up with a clever enough title and this felt a little too dark to be part of my dumb!AUs anyway. And if it isn’t obvious enough, I write this with my I❤HK t-shirt on. 
> 
> It all started because of [this](http://tumblethroughthekaleidoscope.tumblr.com/post/73587745083/pacific-rim-noir-hong-kong) that led to [this](http://setsailslash.tumblr.com/post/73618804645/pacific-rim-film-noir-hong-kong-inspired-by-x), so here is this instead.

 

At the edge of this bayside city, bad blood runs deeper than where the waters are dark. And _oh_ , are the waters dark and treacherous where they are.

The rain has been falling for days, but it will take years before the streets are clean from this underground war that has never seen the light. In this city that is not so big that you can lose yourself, it’s not always about murder or blood spilling on a rainy, moonless night.

No, it doesn’t always come to that.

But _oh_ , does it definitely help when she finally makes her mark.

 

You’re found, bleeding out on the corner of Tull and Fong. You’re not the first, and you’re not likely to be the last. To the surprise of everyone involved, you bleed red like them, not that toxic junkie blue you’ve died for.

Not that it isn’t worth it when you’re covered in Yancy Becket’s blood as well.

 

Far from prying eyes, a Mr. Choi makes a phone call in the middle of the night, lets it ring twice and knows better than to let it ring once more. He’s a private investigator and an informant and a man itching for a smoke. But if Stacker Pentecost’s got a job, Tendo Choi’s got a man for that job.

He means to dial another number, pull another string and wake another man from his sleep with a promise of a sizeable cut, when a knocking from his office doors rouse him. Not that he really believes anyone in this city sleeps anymore, not when the knocking becomes a pounding in the night.

Tendo doesn’t pack a gun, but only because he knows he doesn’t need one.

He opens the door and curses at the sight of the Becket brothers coming home, battered and bruised and running bloodied from the rain. One with an arm shot and the other not quite dead.

Tendo makes another call.

 

You’ve heard of the Hansens, the best that they are, but you still go in, shooting and it’s much too loud. You go in, guns blazing, and between the two of them, it takes exactly six rounds to put you down.

Down but not dead, they still need you to bleed.

While the rest of your stash leaves with them, you, _oh_ , you’re left to colour the wall.

 

Nobody’s loyal and everyone’s compensated in currencies of debts paid and repaid in this cityscape, he pulls a gun apart in three seconds. It is silent.

Hercules is ex-military and his kid, bastard that he is, bastards that they both are, is just as good when he lets the dead weight slump over. The smear of blood marks a trail across the room and they are silent, deathly so.

Nothing says a debt repaid quite like painting the walls with the dead even when they prefer a much subtler kill. This notch on the belt is made against bone, cutting too close because this, this is for the time when Chuck would’ve died, and Herc traded in a personal favour to the Marshal for his boy.

Hercules steps over the body as Chuck glances up from the missed call, looking like he’s itching for something that actually puts up a fight.

“Elvis’ got another job for us.”

 

You’re vicious and you spit acid and that’s not as much of a metaphor as you make it out to be. But you’ve got bones in too many broken places and you know even if you lived, you’d rather be dead.

You cough and you spit out blood.

In the morning, you’ll be found, washed out into the middle of Victoria Harbour, belly-side up, and gone are the traces of blue toxin from your systems. Now though, the last thing you see is a fist with rings, and in the corner of your eyes, you will catch the colour of your blood on her lips.

 

The nights are hot in a city this small when the rain isn’t quite roaring against the windowpanes. No matter where they go though, there isn’t a corner of the world where they don’t stand out.

Sasha’s got the colour of winter in her hair, and Aleksis’ a mountain of a man. His shadow hides hers, but there is something brutal and dark when she commands that finishing blow.

They are heavy hitters, these Russians, but they make a romantic pair when the mellowed blues and reds and whites and greens from Hong Kong Island across the harbour light their way.

They have their fingers intertwined, rings a loud metallic _clink_ as they walk from the waterfront in the rain.

 

You’re looking down at the gut wounds but they’re not done yet.

Local boys like them, they’re far from done.

You see them and their identical faces, split lips splitting wider. They’ve got cleavers in hand, the kind meant to hack through bones, and you can’t look away when they bring it down.

You tell them little but you tell them enough.

 

People call them anti-heroes with their miles of ink. Greens and blues and faded reds that hide their scars. There is a dragon splayed across their skin, spitting fire and water down their backs.

The dark is a good cover, the rain even better when it washes the blood from their streets.

Their insignia marks this part of town, local lads that they are, and it’s no surprise when people look away from the brothers as they carry out the dead.

The red, white, and blue nylon bags end up sinking to the bottom of the Victoria Harbour, and it is no accident when they catch sight of those Russians by the bay. And the rest of that toxic blue they find goes up in smoke.

These streets belong to the Wei Tang Clan and it’s always been as simple as that.

 

Out of all the players of the city, you’ve never heard of her.

And maybe that’s exactly the point when her trench coat touches the floor and you’re choking on your own blood at her feet that lead up to miles of legs.

( _For my family._ )

What she says as you die is not something you understand because it is neither spoken in this dialect or one you know. But it is something of revenge, you’re sure, with her lips curling just like _that_.

 

The engine of the car runs in the back alley, a deep low rumble as the exhaust blows a haze of black smoke.

She makes the same exit, knives sliding between skin and stockings, wide strides and wild cries. She’s not like those women, the ones with dresses painted on their skin, hugging curves after curves. Instead, she has her trench coat collar turned high against the wind, drops of rain gliding off the black in streaks, and it’s novel.

There would be cameras clicking, shutters going off in the dark like gunshots fired into the night. But she is Stacker Pentecost’s best and brightest against this war, the printing press will stop running on his words alone.

She slips into the passenger’s seat on the left and waits for him to take the turn out of the alleyway. She waits for the man that she meets on a disadvantage, still covered in his brother’s blood when she steps into the tiny office of a Mr. Choi they all have too many dealings with.

 “Is that a _sword_ , Miss Mori?”

She doesn’t answer, just smiles that feral smile that makes him want to bare his throat.

“Let’s get you back to your brother, Mr. Becket.”

He navigates through the narrow Hong Kong streets, listens to her hum a Tokyo pop song he doesn’t know, and takes them back to the Doctors in their basement office.

 

You’re waiting in a tank in the corner and you’ve got no idea what day or time it is. You only know you’ve been here for a long time and you’re only kept alive to be cut open again.

The doctor asks you to call him Newt but it’s just a little hard when you’re trying to breathe through the blood slowly filling your lungs.

 

Stacker Pentecost is standing by the door, an outlined framed by the light from the hallway. He moves aside for Raleigh to get through, the kid’s arm is still a mess but the doctors’ efforts are on saving his brother’s life.

Dr. Hermann Gottlieb is sewing one wound together while Dr. Newton Geiszler is cauterizing the other. They are both elbows deep in blood and Yancy’s barely conscious. Tendo’s moved out of the way a long time ago and Raleigh fits himself right where he needs to be.

And there would normally be a running track of biting snark, too smart and too sharp but even the doctors know that now is not the time.

Stacker takes a step outside and the lighter that sparks into a flame highlights something important, something like triumph, at the end of his cigar.

“It’s done, sensei.”

He inhales and Stacker’s brightest slips the silver lighter back inside her trench coat.

An exhale and the smoke is slow to dissipate.

“Well done, Mako.”

They all meet her at a disadvantage, and listens as she speaks their language in her tongue. Stacker is no exception but he knows a thing or two. Like, there’s not a whole lot of loyalty to be found in this town, but there is always a thin sliver that shines across the floor, a clear path from the viscous flow of blood.

She’s his, and it’s only respect that keeps it so.

 

On the other side of this bay side city where the waters are dark, you would think the roots wouldn’t run so deep. Before there is glass and metal and buildings built high enough to hide the stars, the infrastructure is unstable, torn between too many interested parties.

In this city, it is not so small that you don’t make a statement when you clean the streets of kaiju blood. Now though, now all he’s got left is a man that calls himself Hannibal Chau and the city of Hong Kong is his.

The rain has fallen for days, and for a man named Stacker Pentecost, it will fall for more.

 

XXX Kuro


End file.
